


Abnormal

by compo67



Series: Palo Alto Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Always Female Sam, Angst, Dean in Denial, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Underage Relationship(s), Jealous Dean, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Male Dean Winchester/Female Sam Winchester, Marking, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, POV Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Sam Winchester at Stanford, Sibling Incest, Stanford Era, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:12:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4727162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam kicks his ass out. She's tired of him leaving the seat up and eating all her food. Dean definitely doesn't sulk on the stairs outside of her apartment, contemplating ways to grovel for her forgiveness. [Sequel to "Modern Love."]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abnormal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcdanno28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcdanno28/gifts), [rieraclaelin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rieraclaelin/gifts).



Normal people don’t have sex with their sisters.

Nor do normal people wait on the steps for their sister outside of her apartment after she spent all morning yelling about getting a job and to stop eating everything in her apartment like a swarm of locusts.

Dean has never had the privilege of being normal.

Of course, his abnormalities have bled into his romantic life. That’s just how his luck _is_. Always has been. Could he have a childhood? Nah. Could he have friends his age outside of his family? Nope. Could he celebrate major holidays without a knife under his pillow? Not a chance. So, he wasn’t entirely surprised when he started this… whatever this is… with Sam.

Over time, he accepted it. Sure, they slept with other people. They were teenagers, not devoted soulmates in some shitty rom-com. The closest their lives got to any rom-com moment was when John caught Sam fucking one of the witnesses from a case. Some people joke about shotgun fathers. John Winchester was no joke. According to Sam, it was worth the orgasm. Dean is fairly certain the dude didn’t feel the same way after John was through.

Every time Dean thinks about him and Sam _together_ , he can’t shake his father’s accusation.

Inbred hillbillies.

That’s not who they are, right?

That’s not what Dean has made his sister, right?

She couldn’t possibly be anything than what she’s made herself—a knockout California pre-law student who keeps shit around her apartment like candle warmers and socks that match. She’s a yuppie. Always has been. Her dwelling has signs of nesting, evidence that she not only belongs in this environment, she thrives in it.

Whereas Dean finds comfort in rundown roach motels and bars with no name out front and a vomit bucket in back.

Ugh.

Dean scrubs at his face, his elbows resting on his knees. All of the clothes he bought for his initial two week stay are too fucking warm for this place. Layers don’t agree with Palo Alto’s eighty degree weather. He’s the only sucker around here wearing jeans and boots. And today—as the blinking sign of the bank across the street reports every three minutes—the temperature has climbed to a ripe ninety degrees.

And he’s stuck outside in the sweltering, volcanic heat until Sam gets back from studying.

Knowing his sister, Dean’s going to rot on these steps.

What was the big deal, anyway? So, he might not be the easiest house guest, but he’s her _older_ brother. Sometimes Sam forgets that. He’s the one she needs to thank for carting her around in diapers and showing her to tie her shoes. Even if she now favors those dainty ballet type shoes that don’t even have laces, she still knows what to do if she ever decides to wear proper shoes again.

He might have tossed his boots over her flats once or twice. And maybe he shaved a couple times without cleaning up all the annoying little hairs off the sink. There may have been an instance or three when he left the seat up as well, but he’s been extremely polite at finding her bras everywhere, even stuffed into the cushions of the couch. The second Princess gets home, she unhooks her bra, sighs, and tosses it into the ether.

So what if he left a few dishes in the sink? Ate some of her food? He was going to replace everything, even the stick of deodorant he’s been using because he lost his.

Maybe he could stand to be a smidge more considerate.

And maybe he could, at the very least, cook something instead of picking at the meals she makes after a twelve hour day being a student at Stanford.

A veritable lightbulb goes off in Dean’s mind.

She kicked him out this morning, insisting that he get off his ass and get a job if he was going to stay longer than what could be reasonably considered crashing.

Now that he’s had some time to wallow—because he’s earned this time, dammit—he can put his brilliant plan into action. His ass is just about to lift off from the steps when a figure rounds the corner and begins the two flight climb. Within seconds, Dean has the individual committed to memory. Short. Broad shouldered. Shaggy, unkempt, chin length hair. Jeans that are way too tight. A stupid shirt the color of rust with a faded Fanta logo.

The dude looks up, somehow able to see through the messy curtain of his hair.

It doesn’t take much to see that the guy is a douchebag. No, wait, Douchebag—capital D.

“Who are you?” he blurts out, paused on the steps, gaping at Dean.

How to handle this? A guy visiting his sister? A guy that isn’t him? The thought that he might be just a friend flits through Dean’s mind, but disappears as he discovers one final detail about Douchebag: he’s holding a bra. One of _Sam’s_ bras. Unless she’s hiring young men to clean her bras one at a time and return them to her in broad daylight, there’s a story here and Dean pieces it together faster than the Impala outracing a backwoods Sherriff.

Standing with his arms crossed over his chest, Dean effectively blocks the stairs. “That’s my question to you, buddy,” Dean snarls. “But let me guess—she let you down easy.”

Dean does not miss the flash of possessiveness in Douchebag’s eyes or the way his hands clench around delicate, coral lace. “Out of my way, asshole. Sam’s waiting for me.”

“Really? Well, that’s just peachy because she’s not home. I’d be over the fucking moon to give back what’s hers though.”

If Sam were here, she’d be kicking Dean’s ass. To her, this kind of behavior makes her current life even more desirable. She left the world of bar fights at two in the morning or scuffles in some dreary parking lot. What she doesn’t understand—because she’s _younger_ —is that this behavior has been the only way for Dean to survive that world. He hasn’t been living; he’s been surviving.

“No!” Douchebag practically pouts, holding the bra close to his chest. “Now get out of the way…”

There are few things that matter to Dean in life. He usually doesn’t give a rat’s ass about where he sleeps, eats, or fucks. But out of the three things that _do_ matter, his baby sister takes first priority.

Grabbing one bra strap, Dean stretches it back.

He used to do this to Sam, back when she first started wearing these things because John mentioned to Dean it was about damn time. John could never have conversations about _female_ matters; he left it all up to Dean, except the time Sam woke up with blood on her sheets that was certainly not from any monster they’d seen before. Sure, John knew about menstrual cycles—he’d been married and he was an ex-Marine for crying out loud—but he had never known about the menstrual cycle of his own teenaged daughter.

For that speech, John picked twelve year old Sam up off the hotel bed, kicked Dean awake—he’d been sleeping on the couch—and loaded them all into the Impala. John being John, he put practically a whole roll of paper towels under Sam before he sat her down on the seat.

No wonder she’d left.

She didn’t have to steal packages of pads or tampons or menstrual cups in Palo Alto. Nor did she have to rely on Dean to procure some for her whenever cramps got bad and came out of nowhere. They ran out of painkillers once, and she got clingy, so they sat in the bathtub, with her in the vee of his legs and he rubbed her middle while she consumed half a bottle of rum.

Warm, affectionate, and drunk, she restarted this thing between them.

There wasn’t any way John didn’t know.

That first time, he drove three hours straight in ocher before hitting gravel, swerving to a halt in front of a battered trailer in the middle of nowhere. He carried Sam to the door because she was obviously gravely ill, and because there might have been rattlers on the ground.

It was the home of Gertie, a jaded dive bar waitress and ex-Nam nurse. She slept with a knife under her pillow; John got along with her as well as he did with any of his hunting contacts.

An hour later, John slipped Sam into the backseat with Dean.

Taking her into his arms, Dean took a chance. He didn’t tease. He didn’t joke.

Under a sky made of Detroit steel, he asked her. “What happened?”

Quietly, she answered him, face buried in his chest. “I’m a woman.”

Here, she doesn’t have some obnoxious older brother grabbing her by the straps of her bra and snapping them every chance he got because of the way it made her nose scrunch up in anger.

Dean yanks the strap from Douchebag—just the strap.

Obnoxious older brother talent kicks in.

He releases at the exact moment when the strap is taut and tight, releasing it so that it snaps and stings against Douchebag’s chin. Douchebag topples backwards, his eyes nearly cross, flinching like a wet cat. The fall backwards is a good seven concrete steps. Bra straps would not be the only thing snapping.

But since he has plans, responsible citizen talent kicks his ass.

With his right hand, Dean yanks Douchebag by the collar of his shirt and pulls him forward. Although no longer in danger of hurtling down half a flight of concrete stairs, Douchebag finds himself practically nose to nose with Dean.

“Hands off Sam’s bra or I’ll remove them.” Douchebag hesitates. Dean shakes him, barely exerting any force but just enough to show he’s not playing. His voice drops to a low, rumble as precarious as Douchebag’s relationship with in-tact bones. “Let’s bury the hatchet, man. You know what a hatchet is, don’t you? I got one in my car if you’d like to see it.”

Douchebag yips and wrenches away from Dean, squirming until he’s free. He tosses the bra up into the air before leaping down the stairs, stumbling at the bottom, his sneakers scraping the sidewalk.

Satisfied, Dean dusts his hands off on his jeans.

Still got it.

He picks up Sam’s abandoned bra and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans in the same familiarity that he’d take it off of her.

 

Picking locks happens to be one of Sam’s strong points.

It doesn’t happen to be one of Dean’s.

Sure, he can do it, but trickier locks require patience he doesn’t often have. He’d much rather bust down the door and deal with the consequences later. Of course, destroying doors isn’t subtle, so Dean spent an entire summer practicing on dummy locks John would toss to him in the backseat and time him on. States shot by in the windows, but Dean hardly saw. He was too busy trying to impress the man up front.

Twice, Sam reached over and helped him.

And twice, John punished Dean.

His sister wouldn’t always be there to bail him out. A man’s got to make his own way.

Well, whatever.

“Son of a…” Dean grouses at the lock on Sam’s front door, catching himself before he says the word she slapped out of him until he stopped saying it. Clenching his jaw, Dean looks straight at the lock. “Cooperate, would ya? Shit’s getting warm.”

Three paper grocery bags rest at Dean’s knees. The cheese is sweating already. And heaven forbid, the pack of hard cider he bought is already tepid.

Ghosts in leather jackets creep up on him, attempting to distract him from working the lock. In whispers, they brush against his sideburns and curl into the shells of both ears. One side exhales deceptive compliments; the other sighs continuously, disappointed, frustrated, let down.

 _Click_.

Dean’s shoulders slump. He presses his forehead against the door for a second, eyes closed.

From here, he can pick up scents uniquely hers. Vanilla. Lotion. Strawberry conditioner. Laundry detergent. Old books.

“Wow,” Dean mutters to himself, picking up the bags and hauling his ass up yet again. “Real pathetic, Winchester. Score.”

Dragging himself in, Dean shuts the door behind him.

It’s not until he’s in the kitchen that he realizes.

She installed the same lock combination as the dummy lock that very first time John challenged him.

Maybe she put it there to keep him out.

And maybe he figured it out to keep her in.

 

California has too many posers. And women who keep tiny dogs in their purses. And boutiques. Try finding a simple shirt and jean combo out in downtown Palo Alto without paying an arm and a leg. There are too many smug university students around here, too. They walk around buying organic soy lattes even though it’s ninety degrees outside and wear designer jeans to classes their parents pay for.

Dean is not bitter.

Definitely not.

Okay… maybe a little.

But hey, they’ve all got to hurry to class while he can lounge on Sam’s balcony with a bottle of cider open and the tiny outdoor grill he found last week going strong. At least it’s a charcoal grill. His sister knows better than to go Hank Hill into treachery and despair.

“You’re a jerk.”

He doesn’t flinch at the sound of her voice. Those flats may make her seem soundless, but Dean knows better. In that case, anyway.

“What did I do?” Dean inquires, innocently enough. He pokes at the coals and covers up the grill. Turning, his eyes linger too long on the hem of her daffodil dress. Buttermilk. Cream. Just enough of a cantaloupe tint for the color not to wash her out, but instead, bring out the healthy, natural blush to her cheeks and the tip of her nose.

Simple in design, the hem billows just above her knees.

Hazel eyes miss nothing. They catch and release.

“Uncle Buck quotes?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Really, Dean?”

Shrugging, he leans against the iron railing. “He your boyfriend?”

“If I _had_ a boyfriend,” Sam starts, “he wouldn’t use Uncle Buck quotes to scare off other men.”

“You could do worse.”

“Don’t think so.”

“He could wear Fanta shirts.”

“Dean.”

“Sam.”

“…you make words so stupid.” She presses the palm of her right hand to her forehead and shakes her head. “I can never get out what I mean to say.”

A rare breeze brushes past. It feathers through her hair the way he would like to.

“If you had a boyfriend,” Dean picks up the thread of conversation, though his grip on it isn’t nearly as firm as hers was. He avoids eye contact. That would be too much. “Could he live with you?”

Dimples frame a frown. Her hands settle on her hips and she rocks back and forth while she thinks. He didn’t get much of a look at her this morning, since she rushed him out of the apartment. Most mornings he’d pretend to sleep while she got dressed, watching as she selected panties and a bra from the top drawer in her dresser. Some days she matched up, others she didn’t. Some days she went with the lacy ones, other days she went with sports bras. One day, she went without anything, but when she came back she muttered that having the girls flop around all day wasn’t worth the lack of underwire.

Sometimes, Dean will sit on the bathroom sink while she curls her hair.

From the time she was a baby, she’s had dark, chestnut hair. She was never blonde.

“If I had a boyfriend…” Sam leans against the other side of the railing. “…he’d respect my space.”

They lived on top of each other for so long. When she left, there was no one else’s stuff to mix in with his own, to sort out when he packed up, to separate from laundry piles because bras can’t be washed the same way as boxers. There’s been no one to hold Dean accountable for the messes he makes, the paths of destruction he cuts through a kitchen, or for the mountains of dirty clothes he forgets to mend and wash. It’s not that he ever expected her to do any of this for him, because she never did. He always did it for her. He cooked their meals, did their laundry, and made their beds when they didn’t stay at motels.

There hasn’t been anyone around to comment on what his life looks like.

“But I can’t have a boyfriend live with me,” she sighs, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

Disappointment sinks its teeth into Dean’s stomach.

Sam punches him in the shoulder.

“I don’t know what you are to me, Dean. But you’re not my boyfriend. And you are but you aren’t my brother. I can’t describe you to anyone, not even myself.” Her eyes flit from Dean to her shoes. “And I don’t… boyfriend isn’t enough. That’s never how I’ve seen you. Have you ever seen me as your girlfriend?”

Honesty fuels his instinctive, “No.”

Laughing nervously, Sam shrugs. “See? So what are we to each other? You can’t be this guy who comes to my place and crashes for a month or two, then leaves at midnight and I don’t hear back from him for months at a time.”

“I checked up on you before…”

“Yeah, _before_.” She looks at him directly, in a way he knows she’ll make a great lawyer. “Things are different now. I’m different. You’re different. And I… I have to set boundaries, Dean, even if it hurts.”

“So you don’t want me here.”

“No! That’s not what I’m saying.”

Bristling, Dean holds out his arms. “Then what _are_ you saying? Look, I’m sorry I’ve been a shit-tacular guest. I’m sorry I shave and I don’t clean up, that I leave the seat up, that I eat all your food. I’m sorry. But if you don’t want me here, if I irritate you _that_ much, what’s the hold up here? You been letting me crash out of pity?”

“I would never do that,” she snaps, pushing herself off the rail to stand closer to Dean. “And you know it, Dean.”

He doesn’t take the same tone with her as he did with Douchebag. But he does keep his voice low. Almost timid.

“Then what do you want, Sam?”

It feels like an eternity passes by before she clasps her hands in his.

“I want you to stay.” Her thumbs brush over his palms. “I wanted you to ask me what _I_ wanted and you finally did so—I want you to stay. But for real, Dean.” She lets out a shaky breath, chin tilted up, the beginning of a storm in her eyes. “I want you to get a job you deserve, not just what’s out there. I want you to have lunch breaks so I can take you out. I want you to sleep next to me every night.”

There’s no more self-medication that involves a tub and a bottle of rum.

She’s too grown up for that.

“What about Douchebag?” He’s not too grown up to ask that.

Rolling her eyes, Sam grumbles, “Ugh. He was a dry spell booty call.”

He’s just heard his sister—the straight A’s Stanford student—say the words ‘booty call’ and ‘stay.’ Not all in the same sentence, but still. These are important things.

And he’s listening.

Dean dips down and kisses Sam the way he knows she likes—rough, but a little bit sweet.

His hands squeeze hers and the axis of his body tilts in sync to her own.

Smoke rises.

But it’s not from their kiss.

“Holy shit!” Dean blurts out, his eyes wide. He rushes over to the grill, stumbling, dropping one of the tongs. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Sighing, Sam watches Dean lift the lid. She waves away smoke, coughing slightly. “Ugh, Dean! I thought I asked you not to cook your stupid steaks out here! You always burn them and then the place smells like charred meat.”

Hacking into the sleeve of his shirt, his eyes watering, he manages to snip, “I wasn’t cooking steaks, Your Highness! Fuck. This is what your stupid rabbit food gets you.”

When the smoke clears, Ms. Know It All Vegetarian gets a proper glimpse of Dean’s now spoiled romantic meal. Four portabella mushroom caps lie on the grill, shriveled, blackened, and sad. He had brushed them in olive oil, garlic, salt, and oregano—only a forensics team could tell that now.

Sam pokes at a mushroom cap. The edge crumbles like soot.

Despite this, the grin on Sam’s face widens.

This time, it’s her turn to kiss Dean the way she knows he likes it—sweet, but a little rough.

 

In theory, Dean should be cleaning up his mess throughout the apartment.

In reality, Sam’s hands are on his ass and nothing else matters.

She gropes and squeezes with such ferocity that one particularly firm squeeze causes him to groan. Since his lips are pressed against her neck, the vibrations from his groan elicit a shiver he can feel course throughout her.

Dinner has been abandoned.

They probably won’t get to it for another few hours.

In the kitchen, Sam leans against the counter. Her right hand remains tight on Dean’s ass, but her left hand slips up, under his shirt, fingernails scratching at his shoulder blades. His hands are less bold for once. He wants her to set the pace. He also wants to make her desperate for it.

She is soft against him.

His hands trail up her dress—just an inch. Inhaling scents of vanilla, charcoal, and strawberry conditioner, Dean opens his mouth over a familiar place on her neck. He takes his time, lips pressed against her skin, breath hot and humid. Anticipation grips them both; the tent in his jeans rocks into her dress and the tight, hard peaks of her nipples graze against his chest.

Biting down, Dean lets out a moan.

Sam matches it.

Hands that have always been smaller than his change their trajectory. Sam fuses their hips together and lays Dean’s hands on her ass. He bites down harder, suckling, adding pressure—a reward. With her round, curved ass firmly in his hands, her pert, heavy breasts rising and falling against his chest, she clings to him.

Scorching, Dean’s fingers push up under her dress to brush against the scintillating edges of silk and lace.

This is the kitchen where she makes breakfast, usually tea and jam on toast, often in nothing but a baggy t-shirt. Sometimes it’s his shirt. This is where she pours mugs of strong, black coffee, better than any diner, gas station, or café. It’s where several times, she’s made him eggs and pancakes, then brought it to him in bed before leaving for class.

Under her dress, here is the warmest part of her.

Dean cups her cunt, the palm of his hand resting against the edge. Only one finger extends to where she wants—teasing, skimming, tracing the map of damp, satiny heat.

Gasping, Sam’s thighs tremble.

Two seconds after Dean pops off of her neck, she arches into his hand, pushing her hips down. Sam grabs both sides of his face and pulls him in for a savage kiss. Their teeth clink. Their lips bruise. Dean rubs her cunt through the fabric of her panties.

Seizing the moment Sam submerges herself in kisses, Dean places his hands on her ass again, lifting her up in one practiced motion. Rising up, Sam follows every movement, wrapping her legs around his hips, holding onto his shoulders, her hands in his hair. Her cunt bumps against his belt buckle, then rests on the top curve of his tented jeans.

She’s easy weight in his arms.

Fluidly, he carries her—down the hallway, stopping once for a quick grind against the wall.

Everything after he sets her on the bed feels surreal.

He shoves her dress up and her panties down. With his left forearm, he pins her hips down, keeping her still as his tongue slips into her, starting from the red, sensitive top and dragging down to the wet, sultry space that’s home.

Saturated in slick, he darts inside her, just to taste.

Gripping onto the sheets, Sam writhes underneath him, pushing her hips up, hungry for more.

Smiling, Dean pulls out. He drags his tongue flat over her, until he reaches what they both want—this bundle of nerves, swollen just for him. His lips on the edge of hers, Dean massages her clit in figure eights, curling his tongue to nudge against the underside. One, twice, three times, he rubs over the sensitive, quivering tip. Back and forth, he switches up, licking her cunt out, moaning, diving his tongue inside her as far as he can before reaching back up. With his plush lips sealed over her, he holds her down, spreads her legs out, and flickers his tongue over her clit. Slow at first. Then fast, fast, fast, fast, fast…

“Dean!”

She comes so good for him.

Rosy and perfect, her cunt practically glistens. Her thighs are sticky. His jaw line is a mess.

He looks up at her, tongue an inch away from her clit.

Hauled up, she alters the dance, picks up the tempo. Before he knows it, he’s flat on his back, and somehow, they’re naked. How? Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter if she ripped off his clothes or a hurricane passed through. Because she starts kissing him, hands on his chest, licking herself off of his chin and it’s the hottest thing next to her cunt grazing over the tip of his cock.

He’ll clean the bathroom. Wipe down the sink. Start shaving in the shower. Do his own dishes and replenish the fridge. He saw a body shop hiring not too far from here and it should pay decent because Californians drive SUVs and Bentleys. It’ll be good to pay some of her rent. And to have her visit him on break. He’ll turn off his crummy monthly-paid phone and buy a new one with a number only she knows.

He’ll do that for her and for himself.

Straddling him, Sam reaches back.

Dean reaches up.

He cups her breasts, rubbing each pink nipple with his thumbs. He gropes and feels the weight of her in his palms.

Sam pushes her hips down, taking him inside her, riding him until their hips line up.

She is succulent and velvety and dripping all around the length of his bloated, twitching cock. The walls of her clench and his hips stutter. Leaning down, she buries his face in her breasts, encouraging him, moaning when his mouth begins to suckle, alternating between each one.

Above them, the headboard taps against the wall. Below them, the mattress fusses.

All around him, he is hers.

The swollen tip of him hits against a secluded spot.

Grinding down, rocking back and forth, Sam fucks herself on him, pounding them hard against each other. The muscles in her thighs work. Dean slaps her ass, thrusting up, aching to get deeper and fuck her harder.

Her fingernails dig into his shoulders.

A gush of warmth floods over Dean’s cock.

“Coming!” Sam screams, her entire body shaking. “C-coming, Dean, Dean, I… oooh!”

He flips her.

And lays her on her stomach.

Mounts her from behind.

And fucks her to orgasm two more times, driving into her with abandon, until come runs down her thighs and spills onto the bed. She makes a mess. He comes inside her, buried completely, lips pressed to her cheek.

This is them.

Breathing hard, he slips out of her with a squelch, rolling off to the side so she’s not uncomfortable underneath him. In turn, she curls into him, hooking her leg over his hip. They pant and wheeze for a long while, sometimes looking at each other, sometimes closing their eyes.

 “Stay,” Sam whispers, her lips against his. “Please.”

Normal has never seemed so distant.

And so unworthy.

He kisses her on the mouth and then on her cheek.

“Yeah. I will.”

He does.

 

**Author's Note:**

> quick update! late for work! phew!!!
> 
> thank you all for being so patient with me. here's a little something to help the absence. <3
> 
> thank you to M and R for being such spectacular folks in my life.


End file.
